Chapter 118: Fang and Grace

Chapter 118: Fang and Grace

The ruins of the forgotten holy city groaned beneath a dim sky, where twilight never seemed to end. Stone arches, cracked mosaics, and hollow chapels whispered of battles long past.

Beneath it all, the catacombs pulsed with ancient prayers and the faint hum of something living—something divine.

Caelum moved first, his steps silent against the sacred dust. Beside him, Kuroka's silhouette slinked through shadow and mana alike, her senses dancing with illusions and threat detection.

They had tracked Lyra Andrel to the lowest sanctum, where she had nested herself within a half-collapsing reliquary.

They found her there: a woman with snow-pale hair braided down her back, a crimson exorcist's coat too worn to speak of loyalty.

Her hand glowed with the soft light of Twilight Healing, forming a thin barrier of light between her and the world. She was tending to a wounded devil child—likely an orphan—who fled when the two intruders arrived.

Lyra stood, her face unreadable.

"I don't barter with assassins," she said coldly.

"We're not here to take your life," Caelum replied. "Just to talk."

"Then why hide your aura?" Her eyes snapped to Kuroka, who now leaned against the archway, tail swaying.

"Because if I didn't, ya would've attacked us the moment we entered the city," Kuroka said smoothly. "Don't make us force the issue, nya."

Lyra's light flared, and in an instant, three lances of healing light fired outward—blinding, precise.

Caelum deflected them with his Aether Frame, a barrier of pale azure energy warping around him. Kuroka vanished into smoke, reappearing behind Lyra with claws laced in silent shadows.

It was a brief skirmish—measured, restrained.

Lyra wasn't fighting to kill. She was fighting to keep something of herself.

A voice cut through the tension. Deep, steady, unmistakably commanding.

"Enough."

Volundr stepped into the sanctum, velvet box in hand, his cloak trailing like dusk behind him. He did not raise his voice or posture—he simply existed, and the air recognized him.

Lyra tensed. "You're him."

"I am Volundr Agares," he said. "I've come for the Sacred Gear you carry."

"Then take it from my corpse."

"I won't," he said, stepping closer.

"Because you've already suffered enough. You wield Twilight Healing as a crutch and a cage. It ties you to wounds you don't deserve to keep reopening."

She faltered.

"I don't want to destroy what you are, Lyra," Volundr continued.

"I want to set you free from it. There's a girl under my care—Valerie Tepes. Her life force is fragile, and the gear you bear could be the difference between a slow death and a future."

"You mean to transfer it?"

He nodded.

"With respect. With honor. And with your permission.And I know how to transfer safely without damaging the current host."

Lyra stared at him—at Kuroka, who now stood unthreateningly, claws withdrawn; at Caelum, whose stance was guarded but non-lethal.

They had not come as thieves. They had come as a new kind of force—measured, intentional.

"Why should I trust any of you?" Lyra whispered.

"Because I don't offer slavery," Volundr said, kneeling to match her eye level. "Only choice."

And for a long moment, Lyra Andrel said nothing.

But her hand trembled, the light in her palm flickering.